Mindscan

"Whenever you want to, my dear," said Karen. "I thought we'd order you a pizza.

You…"

I was sure she'd been about to say something like, "You always liked pizza," but had presumably thought better of it. Too much like an elderly mother lamenting that her little boy was all grown up now.

Tyler nodded after a moment. "Pizza is fine. Do you have a good local place? A mom-and-pop?"

I thought I could build on this. "You don't like big chains, either?"

Tyler regarded me. He seemed almost offended that I was trying to find a common ground between us. But, after a moment, he said, "Yeah. I hate them. Did your folks run a small business?"

"Well, it was s family business…" I said.

Tyler narrowed his green eyes suspiciously. "Meaning what?"

"They're in the beer business."

"How so? Some little microbrewery?"

This had to come out at some point, too. "No. Not a microbrewery," I said. "My last name is Sullivan, and—"

"Sullivan?" snapped Tyler. "As in Sullivan's Select?"

"Yes. My father was a vice-president, and—"

Tyler nodded as if I'd just handed down an indictment. "Nepotism," he said. "Rich old fat cat."

I was going to let it go, but Karen had had enough. "Actually, Jake's father suffered severe brain damage when he was thirty-nine. He's been in a vegetative state for getting on thirty years now."

"Oh," replied Tyler, softly. "Urn, I'm sorry."

"Me, too," I said.

"So … ah." Tyler was perhaps thinking of all the chronological absurdities here.

Him older than me, my father incapacitated at an age around our own, a man in his forties dating a woman in her eighties, a woman who grew up in the last millennium with a man who grew up in this one.

"Look," I said, "I know this is awkward. But the fact of the matter is that Karen and I are together. And it really would make both of us happy if you and I could get along."

"Who said anything about not getting along?" replied Tyler, sounding quite defensive.

"Well, no one, but…" I stopped, tried another tack. "Let's start over, shall we?" I got up, walked over to where he was now sitting, and stuck out my hand again. "I'm Jake Sullivan. Pleased to meet you."

Tyler looked as though he was contemplating whether to go along with this rebooting of things. But, after a moment, he took my hand and shook it. But he wouldn't go so far with the charade as to introduce himself again.

"Now," said Karen, "why don't you order that pizza? Try Pappa Luigi's. I couldn't eat pizza these last few years, but people said they were good."

"Phone," Tyler said, into the air, "call Papa Luigi's."

The phone did so, and Tyler placed his order.

I sat down again, this time taking a straight-back wooden chair that I would have found uncomfortable had my body been subject to fatigue. We all talked awkwardly for a while. Tyler had lots of questions about the Mindscan process, and Karen answered them.

The pizza was supposed to be here in thirty minutes or it would be free; I'd have paid a lot to get it here even faster than that to put an end to the strained conversation, but at last the doorbell rang again. Karen insisted on paying, over Tyler's protests. ("You're not going to have any, after all." "But I did invite you for dinner.") She carried the box into the kitchen, and set it on top of the stove. She then got Tyler a plate, and he helped himself to a steaming slice. The cheese pulled away in strings that he had to sever with his fingers. The toppings — pepperoni, onions, and bacon — looked perfectly decadent: the disks of pepperoni curling up at the edges, creating little artificial lakes of oil; the crisp bacon strips crisscrossing the flat Earth of cheese; the onions concentric semicircles darkened almost to black at their tips.

It looked fabulous but…

But I couldn't smell it at all. The olfactory sensors I'd been provided with were geared to those things that were crucial for safety: the odors of gas leaks, of burning wood. The meat, the onions, the tomato sauce, the warm bread of the crust — none of it registered.

But they were clearly registering on Tyler. I'm sure he wasn't doing it to be cruel, but I could see him inhaling deeply, drawing in the wonderful — they must be wonderful, I knew they were wonderful — smells. A look of anticipation grew across his face, and then he bit into his piece, making that glorious grimace that suggested the roof of his mouth was burning.

"How is it?" I asked.

"Mmmmfph…" He paused, swallowed. "Not bad at all."

It was decadent indeed — but, then again, with over-the-counter drugs that dissolved arterial plaque, and others that prevented fat from accumulating, it really wasn't that much of an indulgence … for him. But for me, it was something I'd never enjoy again.

No, not never. Sugiyama had said this version of the body was only the current state-of-the-art. It was infinitely upgradeable. Eventually…

Eventually.

I watched Tyler eat.

After Tyler left, Karen and I sat on her living-room couch, talking. "So, what did you think of Tyler?" Karen asked.

"He doesn't like me," I said.